


A Night In Melitele's Care

by CleopatraThe7th



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: "The Last Wish" story arch, Book meets show meets video game?, F/M, First Witcher Fic, Healed enough to bang, Loved the show now devouring all the media, One Shot, Plot? What Plot?, Shameless Smut, Who said priestesses had to be abstinent?, vow of silence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:42:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22408138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CleopatraThe7th/pseuds/CleopatraThe7th
Summary: In "The Last Wish" story, Geralt is at the Temple of Melitele to heal under the watchful eye of Nenneke. Iola is a priestess at the temple, who has taken a vow of silence for her goddess. In the book, Geralt spends a night with the priestess while he is healing.This is my account of what happened that night.
Relationships: Geralt of Rivia / Iola
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	A Night In Melitele's Care

**Author's Note:**

> I binged the show (along with everyone else on the planet, it seems) and have been reading the books. Here is my shameless smut tale of Geralt getting down and dirty with Iola the First, a character from the books and games.

A Night In Melitele's Care

"You don't have to leave." 

  
The deep voice, gravely with under-use, was not loud, but still vibrated pleasantly through the warm summer night's air. The man sat shirtless under the thin coverlet, a bandage thick and heavy on his throat, though that did not totally account for voice's rumbles - Geralt of Rivia rarely spoke unless he felt that his words would be heard and understood. His amber colored eyes, so bright this night that they were nearly orange, blazed out of his pale face unflinchingly. "I would welcome the company."

Iola had frozen when he spoke, her hand extended halfway to the pitcher of water on the nearby end table. Part of her nightly routine, before bedding down for the evening, was to check on the mending mutant that Nenneke had decided to house in the temple of Melitele. Examine the wound and bandages for signs of any festering, pull the blankets over him if he had kicked them off while in the grips of his dream filled sleep, pour him a glass of water in case he wakes up with a thirst, snuff the candles, and leave. The Witcher had been healing nicely, but hadn't said anything more to the priestess than a grateful "hmm" when she left him water or food, or a "fuck" growled through gritted teeth as she changed the bandages when the wound was new. 

Now he was bright and alert, and his gaze was unwavering, the offer hanging in the air of the sparsely furnished temple room between them. Iola could scarcely breathe, and silently begged her heart to cease its pounding, which she knew he must be able to hear with his heightened senses. She closed her large blue eyes, sending a prayer to Melitele for guidance, and opened her eyes to find that Geralt had raised an eyebrow at her, his head tilted slightly as he continued to regard her.

She turned from him, walking swiftly to the door. 

Iola reached out... and shut it. She stared at her hand, resting on the polished wood surface, unable to fully believe that it was _hers_. Chewing her full bottom lip, she considered pulling it open again, slipping out, and praying.

A gentle motion in the air stirred the red strands of hair that had fallen from the bun she had pulled it into, and the Witcher's large hand, fell over her own delicate hand. His hand was calloused with rough skin, but his touch was feather light; gentle in a way that surprised the woman. Geralt's other hand reached around her waist, ghosting across the thin material of her robes, barely touching; the heat that radiated off of him touched her more than his flesh did. His scent filled her nose - campfire and summer rain in the woods. It didn't seem to matter how long he had been here, or how much he had bathed - he always smelled like fire and rain, the two scents mingling pleasantly on his skin. Now her head seemed to swim with it; she swore that the bed hadn't even creaked as he had slipped out of it, lithe as a panther, to join her at her moment of decision.

Geralt's breath tickled her ear gentle as he spoke again, low and quiet. Iola felt her nipples harden at the feel of his words, the puff of air on her skin. "You can leave if you want."

Now she turned to him, looking up into those amber eyes, such a contrast to his clean, white hair. She trembled at the closeness of him, licking her lips quickly and taking a deep, steadying breath. 

"Are you afraid of me?" He asked her, and stepped even closer, and now his hand did rest on her hip, his fingers splayed out across her back. The man leaned down, his eyes searching her face, and the hint of a smile touched the corner of his mouth. "Hmm... no. You're not afraid." With that, he closed the distance at last.

His lips met hers, firm and wanting, and she leaned up and into his kiss, accepting and wanting more. One of his hands found its way into her hair, pulling it free from its binding only to wrap her long, red locks around his wrist, trapping her for a moment before he pulled his hand free, gently dragging his finger tips down along her neck, tracing her jawline, and cupping her cheek as his tongue danced into her mouth.

"Hmm..." he groaned, back deep in his throat, and she could feel his need pressing against her hip, barely contained by the cotton pants that the priestesses had provided for him while he mended. From what she could feel, he had a lot of need.

Her small hands found his chest, tracing over the hair that was spread across his muscled form

_Melitele is a wise goddess. She will understand._ Iola thought, and gently applied pressure to his chest, pushing him back to the bed. Their kiss broke when the backs of his legs bumped the wooden bed frame. The gaze that met hers was heavy with desire.

She stepped back, her gaze never dropping, and pulled her green robe up over her head in a swift motion, exposing her bare body beneath. Iola and the other priestesses were always bare beneath their robes as the evening drew near - a way to cool themselves down from the summer day's heat in time for bed; their bodies individual temples that Melitele had created and blessed.

Staring at her flawless body - ivory skin, perky breasts with her nipples standing out, the thatch of red hair at the juncture of her long legs perfectly matching the long red hair that now fell free across her shoulders - Geralt was nearly speechless. "Fuck," he breathed, "I may not deserve you."

Now it was her turn to feel a smile curling upwards at the corner of her mouth, and her long fingers, so skilled at sifting through the herbs and trinkets needed in their rituals, now deftly untied the front of his pants. When he was at last freed, her eyebrows rose. Whatever gods had watched over the creation of this Witcher had decided to give him quite the gift.

Folding gracefully down to her knees, Iola knelt before him. She blew air lightly on his tip, and was pleased to note the tremor that crawled through the Witcher's body as she did. Her blue eyes flicked up to his face once, and was rewarded with the image of him watching her intently. She was still watching him as her rosebud lips parted and she took the head of his cock into her mouth, flicking her tongue deftly over his tip. Geralt's eyes fluttered in pleasure, and she turned her attention fully to the task at hand.

One of her hands firmly gripped his length, and she pushed forward, taking as much of his length as she could into her mouth before pulling back, following the trail of her mouth with her hand, and using the saliva left behind to stroke his entire length with her hand. Geralt made a low rumbling sound in his chest as her hand began to pump. She stroked him several times before replacing her hand with her mouth again. 

Her ministrations continued like that, alternating hand and mouth, until the man suddenly pulled his hips back, pulling his member away from her. He reached down, held her waist, and hoisted her onto the bed. His hands spread her legs deftly, and he bent forward, burying his face into the place that had become hot and wet with desire as she had tasted him.

He tasted her now, his tongue flicking at her clit as he pushed one strong finger into her. A gasp escaped her lips, and she was rewarded with a second finger, pushing in to join the first, sliding in and out of her with controlled precision. His tongue was replaced by his entire mouth and he _sucked_ on her sensitive flesh, and now her hips rose to meet his busy fingers, her hands tangling in the sheets as she teetered on the edge of release.

The fingers were smoothly withdrawn, and his cock slid into her without missing a beat, all of his inches suddenly filling her and slammed against that secret spot inside of her, and her world whited out as she came, the waves of pleasure rolling over her body. Geralt held still, feeling her pussy squeezing and contracting around his engulfed penis, enjoying the moment of her pleasure.

As she came down, he began to thrust into her, slowly building speed. He braced himself with a hand next to her head, his other hand cupping one of her full breasts. The Witcher lowered his mouth to this breast, sucking on the nipple as he slid in and out of her.

Creaking now as they moved, the bed protested as Geralt again held her hips, ensuring that they did not separate as he picked her up from the bed. Her arms looped over his broad shoulders, and he turned them so that he was sitting while she rode him. Her muscular thighs flexed as Iola rocked with Geralt, enjoying the feel of his cock in this new angle. He lavished her breasts and neck with blessings from his mouth; kissing and sucking as he explored her territories.

His pace finally began to quicken as he at last allowed himself to approach his climax. Now Iola's hands were in his white hair as she urged his head up, his mouth finding hers. Their tongues danced as he thrust up into her, and she knew that she would be sore tomorrow but now it just felt so good that she didn't care; that was a problem for tomorrow. Right now, the priestess just wanted everything that the Witcher could give her.

Another of those low, appreciative rumbles vibrated through his chest, and now Geralt's rhythm became erratic, his last few thrusts hitting hard and true inside her before he slammed himself deep, his seed spilling and pumping within her as she came a second time.

They remained entwined on the edge of the bed, their sweat mingling as their chests heaved in a struggle regain a normal breathing rhythm. Geralt gently lifted her off of him, and his cock, sated now, slipped from her. She walked to the basin that had been left for bathing and attended to herself, as did he. 

When they were as clean as they were going to be without a full bath being drawn, the red-headed priestess turned to him, eyebrows raised in a questioning manner. Geralt turned down the covers of his bed and climbed in, shifting to one side and holding the covers up, offering her the space beside him.

She climbed silently into bed with him, and she felt his fingers running through her hair as she settled in. Nestling against his chest, she looked up at him, but he appeared to already be falling asleep.

Sometimes the vow of silence was a difficult thing to maintain for Melitele, and sometimes it was easy. With Geralt of Rivia, she found the vow was easy to keep. He didn't need words or meaningless platitudes; the world he lived in was one where actions spoke.

She snuffed the candle out, wondering how much sleep they would actually get - she'd heard rumors about the stamina of a Witcher, and was curious to test it. The thought brought a smile to her lips, and she allowed sleep to take her. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for checking out my story - I don't often write just smut, so I hope you enjoyed it. I always appreciate any feedback!


End file.
